Sometimes on Saturday night, I am so bored, nothing I want to watch on my computer, no one I want to call, no one who calls me, texts me, nothing I want to read or bake or snack on.
But then an elf shows up.
He peeks out from over the corner of my bed. Not as shocking as you might think.  I’ve expected him for years.

He’s an ugly bastard, as I’d always expected. But not so ugly that I wouldn’t let him on my bed. He’s an off-color, the color of mold, with fuzzy edges. He’s got bug eyes and I wonder if he might wear some coke bottle eyeglasses to make his eyes appear smaller. But when ask him if he’d consider wearing eyeglasses, he just rolls his eyes.

He’s quiet, although he does breath down on me in a way that goose pimples my flesh, his steady steamy exhalations, oddly comforting. But that’s all. There is no deep connection between us either. Which is good because I couldn’t imagine such a thing happening.

I don’t know what he does when he’s on top of me. I think about where he might live.  Does he have a job? Is he married? With Children? Before I know it, he’s leaving, sliding  backwards back toward the corner of the bed, until he falls over the edge with a loud thump and disappears, to his own world, I assume.

I am bored for the rest of the night.